“Was that you daddy?” asked my eight year old.

My young family and I were on a typical Sunday morning walk, along a footpath by a resevoir. The path was formed of well compacted, limestone pebbles and patches of concrete, but every so often the mud had reclaimed the track and peat and grit took over. It was upon one of these that my son was looking.

The night before, I’d headed from home for an hour or so’s ride in the evening light. The sun was setting over the moorland ahead of me, turning the dials down on the day’s brightness, its volume, its traffic. I was alone with my thoughts, the stillness of the water and the quiet rhythm of chain on mech, tyre on track.

Indulging myself in the solace and sunset, the corners soon came faster, the rocks opportunities to jump and the reservoir became my own for a few short moments. I rode happy, and returned home refreshed, an hour spent in refuel mode, revitalising an increasingly weary core.

Daylight. Sunshine. Noise and busyness. Same path. Three small boys falling in streams, muddying boots and investing far more value in a wet stick than is justified. Behind them, a dad reliving his previous evenings’ escape. I’m a bore. I share my passions far more passionately than my audience deserves or can endure. And so it was this morning. From the gate I relived my evening, hoping to bring my disinterested loved ones into my previously embraced solitude and share the joy I felt in those few precious moments alone. In the puddles and the mud I could see my tracks, the mark left some 18 hours ago, not yet washed away by the autumn showers.

“Was that you daddy?” asked my eight year old, crouching, looking at the impression of a tyre in gritstone sand. It was my tyre, and I instantly remembered the moment it was made, the bike straigtening up as I emerged from the corner and looked ahead.

And then I saw my ride through his eyes. Standing there on the sand, watching me come round the corner, focused, energised, happy. Me in refuel mode.

And instantly I fast forwarded 50 years.

I see my son, standing there, remembering that moment. I see him remembering me talking of the path and the ride. I see him reliving the sunset and the solace. Through his eyes, I see myself riding, happy. But like some cheesy film, as I ride the corner, I see myself fade away and disappear to nothing.

Maybe it’s just what you do when you get to my age, but increasingly I look to what I can leave behind. What impact I can have. Keeper of the Peak is a small contribution. My work with Peak District MTB a little more. Legacy feels like a silly, overly momentous word, but there’s something in it. I want to leave the world I can touch better for having had me in it.

So in the morning I’ll go out and no doubt pick up some rubbish or simply say a cheery hello to people I meet. You should too.

And my boys will be with me too. And in 30 years, they might just do the same.